Deadlines and Diamonds

Monday, 22 August 2016

About three weeks ago, I made a pledge to stop tweeting
about Jeremy Corbyn and the Labour Party leadership race. I still think it was
the right decision and forms part of my attempted ‘light not heat’ social media
policy (at which I often fail miserably). Still, the last thing the whole issue
needs is another gob on a stick firing off half-thought through jokes and
sleights.

For the record, I am neither a full blown-Corbynista nor a
Smithite. I don’t think Jezza is a cross between Dumbledore and Gandalf sent to
save us from the evil forces of VolderBlair and the Red Tories. Neither do I think
he is the love-child of Fidel Castro and L. Ron Hubbard leading his mindless
followers into some sort of anti-Semitic/misogynist Jonestown.

However, this morning, I came as close as I had to breaking
my self-imposed embargo. At a rally last night, Corbyn is reported to have said
“There is a poet, a painting, a novel, a play in all of us”. There was then a
flurry of tweets that were the social media equivalent of a long eye roll and a
deep sigh. Comments included “Don’t encourage them”, “There isn’t one in me, I
went this morning” and suggestions that literary agents would be crying out in
pain. Most of those comments were made in jest. Just cheap shots, the usual fast-fingered
responses. Not particularly funny, but not the end of the world.

I will say this however. My mum left school at 14 and she
paints, sews, cooks, writes poetry, embroiders, gardens and does marvellous
things with a glue gun. It makes her happy and interesting and interested and skilled and means she has a
way to show the world just how bloody brilliant she is. In fact, most of my
family have some sort of creative outlet – we’re a very talented bunch. That’s
probably why when I announced I wanted to be writer nobody rolled their eyes
and told me to get a proper bloody job. Also, because they are not spiteful
twats. I don’t think Mr Corbyn was suggesting that everyone should have their
inner books published or their own wall at the Tate. I think he was saying that
everyone should have a chance to express and enrich themselves through equal
access to opportunity and education at all stages of life. It sort of feels like something that everyone in the Labour Party should be supporting.

Anyway, I digress…

So, then I saw a couple of writers respond in an equally dismissive
manner to the quote. One suggested that it was annoying when people s/he meets
casually find out s/he is a writer, the immediate response is to say “I’ve
written a script”. The writer went on to say that s/he had no interest in some
random person’s script and s/he wished they would keep them to themselves.
There were other similar responses from some fellow writers.

Apologies for the clumsiness of that last paragraph. It’s deliberately
vague and gender-neutral as I don’t want to unleash a mob on the writers in
question. These are the times we live in.

Something about this response got my back up and pushed my
buttons. I wanted to tweet back “Well, who did you ask to read your first
script? And how much courage did that take?” Because one of the most formative moments
in a writer’s life is the first time you ask someone who isn’t your
mum/mate/hairdresser to read your script. The first time you seek out someone
who has the career you would dearly love to pursue and clumsily hand over your
precious word-baby. That fateful day when you take what feels like the biggest
gamble of your life.

Because up until that moment, you’ve rather audaciously
decided that you might have some talent. You’ve twatted about at your computer
for weeks, months, maybe even years. You’ve actually managed to write
something (already an achievement). And ever since then you’ve been oscillating
between thinking it might be ‘alright’ or ‘absolute crap’ but now you need to
find out. So, you’ve called in a favour, screwed up your courage, cyber-stalked
a writer or you’ve happened across one and you are taking it as a sign. However
you approach it, it’s pretty bloody scary.

My magic moment was finding out that a bloke I worked with
was married to Kay Mellor’s daughter. It took me weeks to ask him if he would
get his mother-in-law to read my script. He told me he would put it on the pile
and she probably wouldn’t get around to it for months. Luckily for me (and to
Kay’s absolute credit) she read it in a few weeks, told me everything that was
wrong with it without dashing my hopes and six weeks later I was writing a
trial for Playing The Field. I didn’t get it, but a year later I was a commissioned
writer on Fat Friends. The gamble paid off and I will owe Kay a debt of
gratitude for the rest of my career.

And I feel that the best way I can show that gratitude is to
not pull the ladder up behind me now that I have had some success. So, when
people take their shot with me and ask me to read their script, I always say
yes. People have approached me on social media, via friends, at events and at
even at weddings. And I salute them.

Now, I’ll be honest with you, approximately 90% of those
scripts have been bloody awful. A couple have been so bad that I have really
struggled to find something constructive to say about them. But some have been
a delight. Some have been clearly written as therapy and are intensely personal.
Some have been written after the writer has been on some expensive screenplay
structure course and need to be a bit more personal. But they’ve all been
written by a fellow human being. And that’s the important bit.

Reading other people’s scripts is a pain the arse and a huge
responsibility but how else will we find new talent. If you have a no-read
policy that is between you and your God, but I think you are a selfish prick.
Someone has to find those rough diamonds. I appreciate that it’s not your paying job
but if you establish a few boundaries it can do wonders for your karma. So,
here are my rules for reading…

I say yes to everyone who asks me to read their script.
Especially now that I realise most people will never get round to sending me
one.

I warn them that all I can offer is feedback. I can’t
further their careers, find them an agent or introduce them to Spielberg.

I send all new writers to the BBC Writers Room site. It
is an extraordinary resource.

I don’t read to a deadline. I’m not providing a
pre-delivery proof-reading service for Red Planet entries. It could take months
for me to read it.

I give honest feedback. No bullshit. But I NEVER tell
anyone that they should give up. That’s not my call and, anyway, it would make
me a prick.

Equally, there are ways that new writers could make the task
of reading a little less onerous.

Ask nicely. Show an interest in my work, be polite and I’ll
reciprocate.

There is no excuse for a badly laid-out script. There are
hundreds of layout guides online. Learn to Google. Same goes for poor punctuation
and spelling. As I said, I’m not your proof-reader.

Be patient not pushy. It’s okay to follow-up after a few
weeks, not a few hours.

Be open to robust and constructive criticism. If you just
want someone to read your script and tell you how brilliant you are then you
are pursuing the wrong career. Being a writer is to be criticised. By the same
token, don’t be a pushover. Be a passionate but polite advocate for your own
work – that’s impressive.

Obviously, now I’m leaving myself open to everyone with a
knock-off copy of Final Draft asking me to read their opus. So be it. Someone
did it for me.

Wednesday, 27 January 2016

Westminster Palace, the home of both the House of Commons
and House of Lords, is in a shocking state of repair. It is estimated that it
will take £3.5 billion to sort the place out and stop it falling down
around the ears of the MPs, but only if they move out for 6 years.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

However, I’m all about turning frowns upside down and
looking on the bright side. This enforced exile from the hallowed halls of
Westminster should be seen as an opportunity. And that is why I have started a
petition requesting that whilst Westminster Palace has the builders in, parliament
goes on tour.

I think the whole shebang should decamp to somewhere else. I
don’t care where; Dorset, Birmingham, Liverpool, Bradford, Swansea, Inverness
or the Isle of Man. I just think it’s time that the Westminster Bubble floated
somewhere else.

I want our out-of-touch, self-obsessed, insular politicians
to experience a city that is less well funded than London. I want them to go
somewhere with a different infrastructure, cultural landscape and way of life.
I want our politicians to try and understand the day to day lives the people
living and working outside London.

My fantasy would be for the whole lot of them to spend 6
years in a Travelodge, halfway up the M1 whilst they hold their debates in a conference
room with limited wifi. I want to take away their subsidised bars and
restaurants and let them get their queue for their lunches in a mini-Tesco or
Subway. I want them to get to work on a crowded Abello train or a steamy bus on
a rainy day.

Thursday, 7 January 2016

Public Service Announcement: I am about to use this blog to
have a protracted but hopefully amusing rant about It’s Just Lunch or IJL: an
American dating agency now operating in the UK, in the hopes of saving other
single people from wasting their time, money and energy like I did. . There is a
little bit about writing, but not much. Feel free to give it a swerve. Also,
all names have been changed to protect the innocent.

I needn’t tell you what a solitary life being a jobbing
writer can be. All those weeks on end at your desk talking only to imaginary
people while just about managing to maintain the very basic levels of personal hygiene.
It’s bloody brilliant.

However, there are times when a writer’s mind turns to away
from literary pursuits and on to matters of the heart (and groin). After months
of writing about human interaction, I have been known to feel the need for a
little human interaction myself. But, after a self-imposed writing exile, it’s
a bit like when they introduce a new penguin to the penguin enclosure at the
zoo. It takes a little while for the other penguins to get used to my strange
smell and share their fish, Or something. And so, over the years, I have found
the whole dating/finding a significant other a little bit problematic. It’s not
that I mind being single but at my age you do begin to wonder whether you are
ever going to see another person’s genitals ever again. By the time you’ve
thrown your third pack of expired condoms away, you start to panic. I mean, the
safest sex is no sex but I’m not that risk-averse.

In these moments of panic I usually resolve to take the bull
by the horns. In all honesty, that usually means updating my Guardian Soulmates
profile or re-joining OK Cupid again. I do it with hope in my heart and a fire
in my loins, but after the third month of fending off blokes who want to talk
about their ex-wives I begin to lose hope. Maybe I’m not very good at dating.
Maybe I’m too picky, too desperate, too political, too flippant, and too gobby;
but a penguin can’t change her feathers. And so, usually around the fourth crappy
date I give it up as a bad job, delete my profile and put my romantic future
back into the lap of the gods. The thing is, whilst I’ve written plenty of
meet-cutes, I’ve yet to have one.

About 8 years ago, during one of my flurries of romantic
desperation, I joined a dating agency called It’s Just Lunch. They were an
American company but they’d set up an office (sold a franchise as it turned
out) in Leeds. The company supposedly does what it says on the tin. They arrange
a lunch date for you with a suitable match. IJL book the table; make sure the
restaurant know you are on a blind date and that you are treated well. At the
end of the date, if you are interested in each other you are supposed to
exchange business cards and arrange a second date. If there hasn’t been a
spark, then you are supposed to speak your personal and highly-trained ‘dating
director’ who will use your feedback to find you your next and better match.

Well, that’s how it is supposed to work in theory.

So, for £200 IJL promised that Helen, my dating director
would find me three handpicked men to meet my exacting standards. I now realise that Helen had probably just
bought the IJL franchise after seeing an ad online. I also suspect she had no
experience whatsoever.

Still, there I was in her posh new office telling her what I
looked for in a man apart from a pulse. I told her that I wasn’t comfortable
with massive age-gaps; five years either side of my own age seemed reasonable.
Someone employed but they didn’t need to be rich. Someone with left-leaning
politics, perhaps with an interest in the arts and popular culture. Looks?
Well, perhaps someone a little taller than me but being no oil painting myself,
I wasn’t setting the bar too high. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

And so I went on my first date with Rafiq. We were supposed
to be meeting for lunch, but he arrived straight from having had a burger, so he
didn’t want to eat. As a self-identifying fat girl, I was too self-conscious to
eat in front of him. So, just a drink? He didn’t drink. He also didn’t talk
about politics (with women). He didn’t go to the theatre or read novels or
watch TV much. He did, however, still live with his parents and his Nan. And
that was because he was about 12 years my junior.

Two days later, Helen, my Dating Director rang for the feedback
session. She was like Cilla Black on Blind Date, convinced that she’d be buying
a wedding hat before long. I quickly disabused her of that notion. She promised
that she would use my feedback to find me a true Prince Charming and she would
be in touch.

The next time I heard from her was when a cheque and a note
scribbled on a compliment slip arrived in the post. Instead of Prince Charming
I received a partial refund. Apparently there was not a bloke in the whole of
Leeds that met my criteria. Or maybe I didn’t meet theirs? It’s not a great
boost to the ego to be told by someone who claims to be a great matchmaker that
there is no-one out there for you. To be honest, it sort of confirms your
deepest, darkest fears about yourself. I can’t remember what I spent the refund
on. I hope it was something nice.

Eight years or so later, I had all but forgotten about It’s
Just Lunch. However, they had not forgotten about me. I was on a train to
Manchester when they first tried to call me. I hate sales calls at the best of
time, but someone trying to give you the hard sell when you’re saying “Look,
I’m going into a tunnel now. There really is no point… Hello? Hello? Oh fuck”.
The woman was also calling from Florida, which didn’t improve the standard of
communication. When she called back after the third tunnel I didn’t answer.

But the woman from Florida was persistent. Over the next
couple of weeks she rang me repeatedly until finally she caught me on a Friday
night; the start of another weekend where I had nothing to do and no-one to do
it with. So, when she assured me that IJL was now a more streamlined business I
listened. My ears may have pricked up when she told me of their fantastic
success rate, customer satisfaction and great risk-free introductory offer.
They were offering me 12 dates in 18 months or I would get my money back.
However, she assured me that I wouldn’t need 12 dates. Their personalised,
pinpoint-accurate matchmaking service would probably find me the man of my
wildest dreams within three dates.

Yes! I know it was utter bullshit now. Of course I do. But
at the time, I so desperately wanted it to be the truth that I gave her my
credit card number. And signed a contract. I want to be completely frank in
this account of events, but I can’t bring myself to tell you what I paid to
re-join It’s Just Lunch. I’m too ashamed.

I was a bit annoyed that my first date was in London, but
Nicky my new Dating Director asked me how far was too far to travel for the love
of your life. Hard to argue against that one. Over the years, my wish list for
a potential mate had not really changed. So, whilst my lunch with James at a
very expensive hotel restaurant (£20 for a tiny salad!) was very pleasant, he
wasn’t a good match for me. I wasn’t for him. He was a corporate lawyer in his
fifties with a public-school education and was clearly looking for the same.
Still, he was very polite and spent the requisite hour chatting with me over
lettuce that must have been picked by vestal virgins from the Elysium fields to
justify the price.

You can take the girl out of Yorkshire…

In amongst the dull small talk, James said something that
should have rung an alarm for me. He told me he had done a little digging into
IJL and whilst they claimed to have offices in London, Leeds and Dublin, he was
pretty sure that everything was run from the call centre in Florida. His first
IJL date had been with a woman from London. IJL had booked them a restaurant
table in Wimbledon. However, when they met they realised that they were both
from North London and had both spent over an hour travelling to the restaurant
when they could have met somewhere local. James commented that IJL’s lack of
local knowledge could be a bit of an issue. He was right.

When I gave my feedback on my date with James, I mentioned
that I would prefer to date someone a little more local. Not just in Leeds, but
perhaps in Manchester, York or Newcastle. Of course, to Florida-based Nicky
these place names meant absolutely nothing. I tried to explain that it took me
about three hours to get from my front door to a restaurant in Central London,
not to mention the cost of train tickets or an overnight hotel stay if it was
an evening date. Nicky tried to give me the whole ‘no distance too far to
travel for true love’ bullshit again. I told her it wasn’t just about the
distance and money, it was also the time out of my working day. I asked again,
weren’t there any men in the North? Nicky told me they would look for someone
nearer to home, but in the interim I would have to keep travelling to London.
We came to an agreement that I would let her know when I would be in London and
she would find me a date for that night.

About five months later, she finally managed to do that. I
was down in London for a friend’s birthday party, so Nicky set me up with David
for a Sunday Lunch date at a restaurant in Covent Garden. A restaurant that it
turned out was actually closed on Sundays. So, I ended up standing outside for
30 minutes smiling at random strangers hoping that they might be David (IJL
dates are blind dates, remember).

And one of them might have been. He might have caught sight
of me and thought ‘fuck that’. I don’t know. Because Nicky could not give me
explanation for how she had managed to book a table at a closed restaurant or
why David hadn’t bothered to turn up. She could barely apologise for the
humiliation or inconvenience. Indeed she seemed quite hurt that I was holding
her responsible. She assured me that she would find out what happened to David.

Two months later and I hadn’t heard a thing. I sent an email
asking for my money back. That seemingly got someone’s attention. Suddenly I
had a new Dating Director; Tom. He assured me that my non-date was an
aberration not to be repeated. I told him that getting stood up was one thing,
but getting stood up 250 miles from home was quite another. He said he
understood, but told me that most of the men they had available were in London
and I would either have to accept the dates offered or forfeit my money.

I should have told him to fuck off right there and then.
But, as I said, it was a shameful amount of money and I wasn’t prepared to
spunk it on one dull lunch and a no-show. I told him to recommence the search
for Mr Holdsworth.

I didn’t hear anything for another three months. In that
time it appeared that Tom had moved on and I had my third dating director;
Anita. She also assured me that the mistakes of the past would not be repeated
and told me how she was committed to finding me happiness come hell or high
water.

However, she had something delicate to discuss with me. She
noticed that I had said I wasn’t interested in men who were more than five
years older or younger than me. I replied that I thought it was a decent
window. She wondered if she might be frank with me. What I needed to understand
was that men just are not interested in women who are the same age or older
than them. In her experience, men were really only interested in women who were
at least 10 years younger. So, if perhaps if I could be a bit more flexible…
I pointed out that a company who had promised me a perfect, tailor-made match
shouldn’t really ask for flexibility or compromise. And, more importantly, did
they ask the men to be flexible when it came to the age of their matches?
Apparently not.

So, six months after my non-date with David, Anita sent me
on my next date with Brian. At least this time the restaurant, an expensive
West End steakhouse, was open. It was also busy. So, me sitting at a table
nursing a glass of wine and not ordering any food did not go down very well.
After an hour, I gave in and ordered an overpriced steak and chips. The ladies
on the table next to me realised that I had been stood up and gave me their
carafe of red wine. It was an okay steak.

Anita was apparently absolutely horrified that I had been
let down. Still, perhaps Brian was dead in a ditch or had been kidnapped by
ISIS. She promised to get to the bottom of it. She never did. Instead, she
arranged another date with someone called Robert for the first week in January.
This time she didn’t call to discuss a time or whether Robert met my criteria.
She just emailed me the restaurant reservation just before Christmas. I emailed
back asking for some details. She did not respond. However, I was not prepared
to treat Robert in the way I had been treated by previous dates. So, I booked a
train and hotel room and made my way down to London.

At least this time Anita did actually call to tell me that
my date had backed out. However, I was already in London by that time having
travelled on a non-refundable ticket and booked a non-refundable room. It had
cost me another £200 to be stood for a third time.

Not a complete bust. At short notice I was able to spend the
evening eating pretty decent tapas with one of my oldest, bestest friends –
Sisters before misters.

Still, when I got back to my unnecessary hotel room (which
had no kettle, surely illegal in the UK) I did what I should have done the
first time I was stood up. I wrote to IJL to tell them to keep their fucking
money and to never get in touch with me again. In the space of 18 months that
shitty company has cost me fortune, wasted my time and sapped what little
dating confidence I actually had. Last night I was left feeling hurt, angry and
utterly stupid. So, I am doing the one thing that I know I’m good at; I’m
writing about it,

And if it stops someone else handing over their hard-earned
cash and their fragile hearts to this set of utter fucking con artistes, then
that’s all to the good. I suspect their true business plan is similar to a gym.
They sign you up promising that you’ll have a personal trainer who will design
a personal fitness regime and motivate you to feel the burn until you’re thin
and fabulous. In reality they just take your joining fee, show you how the treadmills
work and then forget about you.

So, my love life is back in the lap of the Gods. Maybe that
meet-cute is just around the corner?

Monday, 4 January 2016

There are two things I
struggle to do during the festive period; dieting and writing. And for much the
same reasons. There all those parties and distractions and drinking Baileys for
breakfast; it increases the waistline not the word count. I rationalise it by
telling myself that even if I were to bash out a pitch for every window I open
on my advent calendar, there’d be no-one sober enough around to read it anyway.
And so, after downing tools for the festive period, I am back with a few new
words for the new term.

A couple of years ago,
I wrote a blog called 10 New Year Resolutions Every Writer Should Break . This
year I’m giving you the 5 New Year Writing Resolutions that I’m personally
going to try and keep. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether you join me
in my virtuous pursuit of the higher literary ground. I also realise that it
might be inviting my fellow writers to police my habits for the next twelve
months. I’m not.

However, if you see me
on a branch of Greggs after the second of January, you do have my permission to
drag me out before I can purchase a Steak Bake.

1. Get my
priorities straight.

It’s been a weird old
year with lots of distractions including voluntary work, family upheaval and
binge watching six seasons of Parenthood. I tried to establish Monday as my
admin day when I would clear my to-do list, my inbox and my head so that I
could get cracking with the actual writing Tuesday through Friday. The truth
is, it’s not working (in both senses of the word).

And now I’m wondering
if I’ve got my priorities skew-whiff. My job is writing. Everything else - the
talks, the meetings, the event organising – are not. That’s not to say I’ll be
giving it all up. There is nothing I love more than being in a room with other writers.
However, there’s a point when you start to feel like a fraud. When it feels
like being a writer is your job, not actually knuckling down and doing the
bloody work.

So, Admin Mondays are
no more.

2. I will
differentiate between writing that is not to my taste and bad writing.

One of the new phrases
I added to my vocabulary this year was ‘Hot Take’. Because, you know, I’m so
down with the kids and that. Do you want to see me twerk?

2015 was the Year of
Rushing To Judgement whether it was about election poll numbers, pictures of
alleged jihadists in the bath or how deep you should bow at the cenotaph. And I
have not been immune to it. I have watched first episodes of shows and decided
that a series was bobbins. Even though I know that writing opening episodes is a
Herculean task. Conversely I have been swayed by other people's opinions on
social media. I’ve watched series to the bitter end despite not really enjoying
or understanding the show because everyone on Twitter was calling it the best
thing since Breaking Bad/The Wire/Crossroads. But worst of all, I have
dismissed shows as terrible or badly-written just because they weren’t to my
taste.

It has to stop and for
a good reason. We have a battle on our hands at the moment to save the BBC. And
one of the most prevalent and irritating arguments against Auntie Beeb seems to
be; Why should I pay my licence fee when I don’t like Strictly Come Dancing/Top
Gear/University Challenge/That Awful Bloody Pop Music They Insist On Playing
Morning, Noon and Night On Radio One?

It so easy to get
dragged into playing a game of fantasy channel controller where you decide what
your £145.50 a year should and shouldn't pay for. It’s a dangerous game that
has already put 6Music and the Asian Network under threat and led to BBC Three
moving online. It chips away at vulnerable services and content. The fact is it doesn’t matter if your televisual diet
consists purely of Wolf Hall and BBC Four documentaries about canal boats. It’s
irrelevant if you only turn on the box to watch Mrs Brown’s Boys and Eastenders.
The Wolf Hall mob pay for Eastenders and vice versa. It is a beautifully
balanced and unique system. No wonder the politicians loath it.

So, I’m going to
strive not to play their game any longer. I will respect the writers, producers,
techies etc who work hard to get stuff up on screen and I will give it a fair
crack of the whip; at least two episodes. And if I still don’t like it, then I’ll
turn off the damn TV.

However, I still
reserve the right to unpick, discuss and analyse – respectfully. I consider it
part of my job as a writer. And perhaps the powerful person who skulks around
social media ‘calling out’ writers who discuss other writers’ work could
respect that? Flipping heck, love. We all Google ourselves to see what folk are
saying about us, but we don’t advertise the fact.

3. I will
learn to talk confidently about money.

The Writers’ Guild is
currently running a campaign called Free Is Not An Option. We want to talk frankly about the increasing amount of
work that writers are being to be asked to do for free. And we’ve all done it. A
pitch turns into a treatment which turns into a series bible which turns into a
pilot script. And the longer this goes on, the harder it gets to mention the
money.

Although, sometimes
remuneration is dangled in front of writer like a carrot on a stick. I’ve lost
count of the number of times that a development producer has told me that s/he
is ‘trying to find some money’ for me. In the words of someone wiser than me;
Do. Or do not. There is no try.

Bottom line? A company
should have a proper budget for development not some ad-hoc arrangement based
on goodwill and crossed fingers.

However, I am going to
take more responsibility for the financial aspects of my career from now. I
will discuss money in the first meeting. I will tell development bods that
whilst I am very excited about working with them, I am also excited about
paying my mortgage.

This is my job, not my
hobby.

4. I will no longer
stand for workplace bullying and bad work practices.

It’s another thing
that most writers will encounter during their careers; the late notes, sudden
story changes, the quick turnover on yet another draft and the subsequent
cancelled arrangements/life. And it’s getting out of hand.

Look, all writers joke
about procrastination and working up to the last second of a deadline. However,
the reality is that a lot of writers have no choice but to write into the wee
hours, over the weekend and whilst supposedly on holiday. It’s become so
prevalent that producers and script editors are not even apologising for it any
longer. It’s just assumed that a writer will take the punishment of
contradictory notes, too many drafts and tight turnovers. There is now no point
trying to explain that you are exhausted or on the verge of divorce or you’ve
eaten nothing but take away for a week. Because if you do complain? Well, you’re
a nightmare. You’re unprofessional. You can’t hack it.

Bullshit. If you are
running a show where it is consistently necessary for your writers to write
through the night or for weeks without a decent break, then YOU are being unprofessional.
You are running a production that is badly scheduled and managed. You need to
do your job better. Actually, it’s probably not just you that needs to do your
job better. It’s a probably a whole roomful of producers sticking their oar in
and gumming up the works.

The thing is, it’s the
law of diminishing returns. With each rushed draft, the writer gets further and
further away from what s/he wants to see on the screen. As the time ticks away,
the dialogue gets more on the nose, the plot becomes leakier and the characters
start doing stupid things. More damaging, with each massive rewrite a writer's confidence is eroded and that shows in tentative, run of the mill, risk-free scripts.

When it comes to scripts, you can have it fast or
you can have it right. You can’t have both.

So, how to remedy
this? Well, this year I’m going to do the following:-

* I’m going to listen out for the tell-tale
signs of bad working practises. If a schedule is described as ‘a bit tight’ that
means it is impossible.

* If there isn’t a
script schedule with deadlines for first drafts, second drafts and shooting scripts,
I’m going to ask for one. And I’m going to ask why the production is not
sticking to the schedule as significant dates sail by without comment.

* I’m going to ask who
will be giving me notes and when. If the big boss (executive or commissioning
producer) isn’t reading my script until the day before it shoots, that’s a potential
problem. Because they could ask for big changes and I’ll have no option but to
take them on board. If they have to have an input, then it needs to be early
and often.

Let’s reject the
narrative of the great exec coming down from the mountain with the essential
note that will save the episode. It never happens like that. More often they
insist on a change that screws up the rest of the episode and negates months of
work. But they pay the wages, so no-one can say anything.

* For my part, I will
inform the production of any holidays, family responsibilities or days when I
will not be available. In the past I’ve kept schtum and hoped that I could slip
away, worried that my having an actual life would be misinterpreted as a lack
of commitment to the production. But let’s stop pretending that shows get
better when they are turned into a competition to see who can work the most
unsociable hours. They don’t.

5. Diversity,
diversity, diversity.

I’ve been trying to
improve the diversity of the characters I write for a long time. I’ve realised
it’s about so much more than just sticking someone called Mohammed in a scene
or making the doctor female. It’s all about listening, reading and educating
myself. In fact, it’s about shutting the fuck up and letting other people tell
me their stories before I start trying to write mine. I expect to be working on
this for the rest of my career. But then I love a learning curve. I will do
better.

And so, I embark upon
2016 with hope in my heart, fire in my belly and dangerous levels of caffeine
in my bloodstream. I hope I get to shoot the breeze with a decent number of you
along the way. Here’s to the lead in your pencil!

Monday, 2 February 2015

Rejection. It’s the one thing you can be sure of in this
job. It just comes with the territory. It’s part of the learning curve. It
makes you a better writer in the long run. You just have to get used to it.
That’s what everyone says.

And they’re right. Still, fifteen years into my writing
career and it’s really not getting any easier. Every ‘no’ is still a hefty kick
in the stomach. So, perhaps what we really learn from rejection is how to cover
up how painful and demoralising a rejection can be. I’m not saying that’s a bad
thing. It’s a coping mechanism. And if we wailed and gnashed our teeth every
time we got a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ then we’d have no teeth left.

We’re all so good at putting on our brave faces, but I want
to let mine slip just for a few minutes. I want to acknowledge how it feels to
have something you’ve worked so hard on put in the round file.

It starts with the phone call or the email. Your heart
leaps when the phone rings or the inbox pings. This is the news you’ve been
waiting for, even though you’ve been pretending otherwise. You’ve played it
cool, tried get on with other things, tried not to get your hopes up. But, no news
is good news, right? Wrong. You know it’s not good news from the opening
sentence, the tone of voice, the opening apology. “Sorry it’s not better news”. Often there is an explanation, a few cursory notes about tone, timing or depth.
A phrase that is used a lot is “We just couldn’t see it”. The thing is, I
could. I could see it glorious Technicolor, breathtaking Cinemascope and
Stereophonic sound. But, obviously, I couldn’t get you to see it.

So, the first feeling that floods over you after you put the
phone down is a sting of shame. Yes, shame.

I love being a writer but I can’t shake the feeling that
it’s a slightly ludicrous occupation. Partly because it is a bit crazy to spend
your days getting imaginary people to talk to each other for a living. And
partly because I can’t help feeling that waking up one morning and declaring
myself a writer was an act of vainglorious self-delusion. Who the fuck did I
think I was? And from the moment that you make that declaration you’re waiting
to be found out. You’re waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell
you to stop making such a damn fool of yourself and get a proper bloody job.

And that’s what every rejection feels like. Someone telling
you to grow up and stop kidding yourself.

And then you have to compound the shame by telling other
people about the rejection; your agent, your friends, your parents. You instantly
regret telling them about having something in development. You wish you hadn’t told
them that you ‘had a good feeling about this one’. Of course, you played it
down and told everyone that the odds of getting it away were slim, but still…
And they all smiled and did that little mime, the crossed fingers. And then
they told you that it was ‘your turn’ and ‘about time’; except you know that it
just does not work like that.

Still, after the shame comes the anger. Why can’t those
bloody idiots see what’s under their noses? Don’t they know how much work you
put into this? You listened to their notes, you did what they asked and it
still wasn’t enough. That’s when you start coming up with the conspiracy
theories.

“They ruined my
beautiful idea with their crap notes.” If they were so crap you should have
said so. "They’re scared of my uncompromising tone and controversial subject
matter.” Hmm, probably not. “They like the idea, they’re just going steal it
and get someone else to write it.” Don’t be so bloody stupid. So, if you can’t
blame the commissioners and development execs, who do you blame? Look in the
mirror.

The truth is that it doesn’t just feel like your idea has
been rejected, it’s feels like you’ve been rejected. My most recent knockback
was a doozy. It unfortunately coincided with me attending a conference where
lots of writers sat on panels talking about their big, successful shows.
Usually, I find that sort of thing invigorating. Mostly writers love to hear
about other writer’s successes. It means it’s possible. Every commissioning
story is proof that if you build it, they will come.

But this time, it’s not how I felt. I looked at my
colleagues and I felt jealous. Not the good, motivating kind of jealousy; the
twisting, bitter kind. I started to list the things that were wrong with me. I
was too fat to be taken seriously. I wear the wrong clothes. My haircut is
wrong. My accent is too Northern, too coarse. I shoot my mouth off too easily.

By the time I went back to my hotel I had resolved to delete
my blog. I was going to get liposuction, elocution lessons and a wig. I wanted
to throw my jeans and baseball boots away and replace them with one of those
great little black dresses that Nicola Shindler wears so well. I wanted
sparkly, kick-ass boots like Hilary Martin was wearing.

I wanted to be someone else.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt that way, but it’s the
first time that writing has made me feel that way. So, how did I get myself out
of this shame spiral? I did what I should have done in the first place. I wrote
my damn way out of it. I wrote this blog. I finished a pitch document that I’d
been buggering about with for weeks and sent it off. I went to talk to a friend
about us making a short film.

I cannot change who I am. And who I am is my writing. The
moment I try to be something I am not, is the moment I should pack it in and
call it a day.

And so, here I am coming out the other side. Like we all do,
all the time. It’s fucking hard work. It knocks a bit of your stuffing out
every time it happens. And I just wanted to acknowledge how hard it is for all
of us. I missed out the most important stage of the rejection process, but it’s
the most important one; telling other writers that you’ve had a knockback.
Because other writers will be hurt for you, angry for you, they’ll tell you not
to give up and they’ll mean every damn word. I know I do.

Wednesday, 23 April 2014

And so, let us starts with the apologies. I write this in my
cups, under the influence, one over the eight, pissed. This blog comes after
the best of nights; a night on the lash with other writers. Very appropriate
for the 23rd of April 2014, Shakespeare’s 450th birthday.
Happy Birthday Bill!

And so I also think it is appropriate to sing the drunken praises
of my fellow scribes, those other daughters and sons of the written word. The
women and men who understand the human condition and bring it to life of on the
page screen, stage and page. Those astronauts in the outer space of empathy and
the search for truth. Ah, that’s pretentious babble but it’s not entirely off
target.

You see the greatest thing about making a living from putting
pen to paper, finger to keyboard, arse to chair is your fellow travellers. That’s
what makes this odd choice of career sustainable. The realisation that you are
not the only one with that skewed view of the world, that exposed heart, that
need to chronicle. And it is a need, not a whim or a vague notion.

And so the best moments of this odd life is not spent at the
desk but in the tavern, inn, pub or coffee shop. That moment when you realise
it’s not just you! There are other freaks that obsess over the words, over the
scenes, over the characters. The first time you squee over that episode, that
scene, that minor character. They get it, the minutiae. More importantly, they
get you.

It’s an extraordinary moment. A feeling of belonging that
you never felt at school, at your first crappy job or even, whisper it, when
amongst your family.

That is not to say that your nearest and dearest can’t be
taken on the journey. The box set and the book becomes your gift to those you
love. Never turn your nose up at a flat, rectangular gift from a writer. Our
heart and soul comes in those oblong boxes. It means we love you. In return,
buy us stationery. There is nothing more guaranteed to gladden a writer’s heart
than an unsullied page and the unused pen.

And so on this holiest days, I salute you my sisters and
brothers of the pen. I share your frustrations, your tears, your triumphs and
your desire to be ‘got’. And I urge you to remember that there is strength in
numbers. The Writers’ Guild is there for you, manned and guided by your fellow
writers. Other writers are there for you. Reach out, we’ll be there.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

A few weeks ago, I had a
conversation with some fellow TV writers. Well, I say a conversation; it was
more a cathartic expulsion of bile and frustration. But then don’t all
conversations between writers ultimately end up that way?

Anyway, the topic
under discussion was “things that TV Development Producers say”. Or
specifically, “things that Development Producers say that make you wish BBC
& ITV buildings had functioning windows so that you could throw yourself
out of them”. As I said, it was quite a cathartic discussion.

Many of the producer quotes were
greeted with howls of painful recognition. We’d all heard them in meeting after
meeting. Those little clichés or go-to questions that they trot out in
every meeting with every writer. So much so, that they are now a trigger for involuntary
violent fantasies. But were we being fair? Do the producers even realise that they’re
doing it? Perhaps they have no idea that we’ve heard all their little sound bites
before?

So, I’ve decide to give our
colleagues the benefit of the doubt, but offer this as a friendly guide to
things you shouldn’t say in development meetings. Especially if your windows
are open.

I also provide a little guidance
on how a writer should/should not react to these pearls of wisdom.

1. If you could sum this idea in one line…

What You Shouldn’t Say
If I could sum up my idea in one
line I wouldn’t need to write a script? Why must everything be boiled down to
the small paragraph that will appear in the Radio Times? It strikes me that if
you can’t grasp a concept that requires more than ten words you’re in the wrong
job.

What You Should Say
It’s Sherlock meets Breaking Bad.

2. This is a great start/first draft.

What You Shouldn’t Say
A great start? A great fucking
start? Have you any idea how I’ve sweated over this? And do you really think I’d
send you an actual first draft? Writing this ruined my marriage, you prick. I
missed my kid’s Nativity play to get this to you.

What You Should Say
I can’t wait to take it to the
next level.

3. Why should we tell this story now?

What You Shouldn’t Say
Because I've only just had the idea. And why does it matter anyway? By the time you’ve ummed and ahhed over
it, we’ll be five years down the line. For fuck’s sake, aliens could have
invaded and UKIP could be in government by the time you make a decision and it
actually gets on the screen. And did you ask that question when you were doing
your latest reboot/literary adaptation? Or did you just ask whether the
material was out of copyright? Wow, do they actually give you a book of stupid,
pointless questions to ask?

What You Should Say
I think we can draw a lot of
parallels between the 16th century and Austerity Britain. And stories
about the human spirit are ultimately timeless.

4. We really like what you’ve got here, but have you considered…

What You Shouldn’t Say
Of course I’ve considered it. I’ve
been through every permutation of this story to get to this point. I didn’t
just bash it out in an afternoon, you know? I’ve lived with this idea, working it
through my mind, drawing on everything I know and have experienced. I’ve lived
with these characters until I feel like I know every detail of their lives;
things that won’t make it to the screen but will inform everything they do and
say. I did all that before I could even consider showing this to you.

What You Should Say
That’s a really interesting idea.

5. Whose story is it?

What You Shouldn’t Say
It’s MINE! You can’t have it. You’re not
worthy!

What You Should Say
Ultimately, it’s about a flawed
and complicated protagonist. S/he’s an everyman/woman that the audience will
fall in love with.

6. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

What You Shouldn’t Say
Well, any chance you could give
us a clue what that might be? Start by telling us what you don’t want to see and we’ll go from
there. And don’t give me that shit about your likes and dislikes being
irrelevant and it being about ‘good writing’ when we all know it’s about who
bought you a drink down at the Groucho Club last week. When I’m made to throw
shit at the wall, I’d like to know there is an outside chance that some of it
might stick.

What You Should Say
Wow, it’s great to have such a
blank canvas. It’s like there are no wrong answers.

7. I gave your script to a friend/my kids/the girl who does my nails to
get a second opinion.

What Not To Say
Why? Are you incapable of doing
your job? Actually, I asked my postman what he thought of you and he called you
an unprofessional dick. The woman in the chip shop agreed. I like to get a second opinion too.

What To Say
It’s always good to see things
through a fresh pair of eyes.

But the ultimate annoying question and one that we’d all been asked….

8. But, if the main character does this will the audience like her/him?

What Not To Say
Perhaps not. Perhaps they’ll have
a strong emotional reaction to the character instead of simply liking them. I
like lots of people but I don’t want to give up an hour of my precious TV
viewing time to watch them. Did you like Tony Soprano? Walter White? Nurse Jackie? Hamlet? I
think you’re confusing liking a character with having sympathy for them,
identifying with them, rooting for them, being outraged by them. The job of the
screenwriter is to get us to feel something, not just to ‘like’ it.

What To Say
I was thinking we could cast
Martin Freeman/Suranne Jones.

So, there you have it; all
genuine things that are said repeatedly in development meetings. If you have
ever said any of those things to a writer; shame on you. But it’s not too late to
change your ways.

About Me

TV Writer and all-round Leeds-based gobshite. I've written episodes of Fat Friends, Emmerdale, New Tricks, Robin Hood and Waterloo Road. Wrote one experimental radio play, Bitter Pill, but I didn't inhale. Now developing various projects (that's how you say it, isn't it?).